Late Night Journey (924 words)

 I could not leave the hospital earlier. My uncle had just returned to the intensive care unit after a major emergency surgery. I had to be with my aunt to provide her company and moral support. I could leave only after the attending doctor said my uncle’s condition was stable. It was past 11 p.m., and I was afraid to take a cab at that hour. As I came out, I found one three-wheeler at the gate. The driver wore a monkey cap and a woolen blanket to ward off the cold wind on the wintry night. From his face, he looked over 50.

When I was hesitant to approach him, I heard him say, “It is late, Beti. Tell me where you wish to go. I will drop you safely”

“How much would you want to go to Paschim Vihar near Jwala Heri Market?”

“Pay me whatever the meter shows. It has not been tampered with”

As soon as I got into the vehicle, he tried to cover the side openings with Tarpaulin curtains.

Let them be open. Do not cover,” I said

“Are you crazy? It is biting cold outside and windy too. Do not be afraid,” he said and continued to cover the openings despite my demur. I was tired and in no mood to argue. I hoped he would not engage me in conversation.

“Who is not well? Any of your close relatives?” he asked as the auto rickshaw started moving along the ring road. I knew he would ferret out more information from me. I did not reply him.

“It is ok if you do not wish to answer. Your fear is justifiable. The city has gone to dogs in the last three years by the wicked acts of a few but bringing a bad reputation to many,” he said

“Sorry, it is not like that. I am very tired and stressed out. It is my dear uncle who is in hospital,” I replied

“I am sorry. Do you mind my smoking a beedi? It is very cold”

“No, you can smoke”, I said. I was not taken in by his deferential attitude and questions that expressed concern. I was happy that I was not travelling in a speeding car. Three-wheelers are slow-moving vehicles with openings on both sides. The driver was also within reach. I unzipped my bag and took the pepper spray bottle in my hands.

He did not talk thereafter and continued to drive the vehicle at steady speed. It was dark and slightly foggy outside. I could only see the speeding street lights. I knew we had crossed JorBagh and were nearing Naraina. It was a desolate patch for a short distance. The vehicle made strange sounds with jerks before it came to a grinding halt. I looked out. It was dark.

“Do not worry. I will set it right in a few minutes,” he said as he climbed down the vehicle. 

It was 11.45 pm. Some cars whizzed past. Memories of the gruesome rape of a young and unsuspecting lady came to my mind. Is this a ruse and a prelude to some sinister act? I wondered. The pepper spray gave me some confidence.

As if he read my mind, I heard him sighing from the darkness. “I know you are thinking of the recent rape and wondering why this man has stopped the vehicle. The snag is set right and we will be proceeding to Jwala Heri market now”

I did not like his presumptuous remark about the recent rape I cursed myself that my mobile was without charge, but pretended to speak to my dad, telling him that I am stuck near Naraina and would be home in 30 minutes.

As we were crossing Punjabi Bagh, he admonished me for travelling late in the night: “Don’t you educated people ever learn that Delhi is unsafe in the night for women? Why do you young women tempt the evil-minded drivers by travelling alone?” he said

My anger grew at his audacity to advise me on what I should or not do. I decided not to answer him then but to give a piece of my mind when I reached my complex. I could see the vehicle turn onto Paschim Vihar Road, and my fears subsided when I saw the familiar surroundings. I was ready to forgive his unsolicited advice.

As he drew the vehicle to a stop after reaching my complex, I checked the meter and gave him 50 rupees more than the entitled night fare. Instead of accepting the money, I saw him crying and wiping his eyes with a kerchief. I asked him what the matter was and why he was sobbing. “Nothing, young lady”, he said

When I insisted on knowing, he replied, “Last year on this date in the same month, my daughter of your age foolishly but innocently took a three-wheeler during a late-night shift. The driver stopped midway and took another accomplice in the vehicle only to destroy her dignity at a lonely place. She committed suicide the next day.  Memories of her filled my mind when I saw you looking for a vehicle. Maybe I should not have advised you”

“I am extremely sorry, uncle, for misjudging all by the nefarious acts of a few. I have no words to express my sadness at your grief. Here, have some more money,” I said as I opened the purse.

“I don’t need any money, Beti. I want only my daughter back,” he said as he cried inconsolably.

 

No More Sweet Indiscretions (300 words)

As Jayanth left for the office, Pushpa saw him off at the lift opposite her apartment. She rushed to the balcony outside the hall to wave her hand as she usually did when he started the car.

When Pushpa entered the hall, she found her neighbour seated on the sofa, mischievously smiling at her.  The neighbour said, “I was waiting for your hubby to leave before rushing in unseen, and you know well for what purpose.”

“I do not approve of it, and every time you tempt me to do things I regret later. I will no longer fall victim to your persuasions, no matter how hard you try.” Pushpa said in a determined voice and with strong intent.

“Pray, do not get upset with me. Tell me honestly, with your hand on your heart, whether you dislike it. In which case, I will trouble you no more.”

“True, I must confess I like it, but I am scared what if my husband comes to know of these clandestine aberrations between us. He is given to wild rage and may hit the roof.

“Do not worry about that. We will keep it strictly between us, and no one will know about it.”

Poor Pushpa fell victim again to the wily words of her neighbour Sumitra but seemed highly happy.” I must concede you are highly skilled in cooking any cuisine, and this luscious, juicy Jangri you gave me now is the nearest approximation to ambrosia.

You know I am highly diabetic, and if these indiscretions were to manifest in the next report, I am sure my doctor would put me onto regular Insulin pricks.”

“I agree, but tomorrow is  Diwali. I promise I will no longer lure you with my sweet preparations,” Sumitra replied even as she hugged Pushpa with affection.

 

The unexpected turn (653 words)

The police van screeched to a halt outside the building. Two men in police uniform with guns drawn ran up the stairs to the second floor and rang the bell of apartment 213.

There was no response, and one of them just pushed the door. It opened with no difficulty. They rushed to the living room where the TV was on and blaring.

They recoiled for a moment at the ghastly sight of the body of a young woman around 25 in her nightie lying on the sofa with blood sprayed all around. The body was puckered with several stab wounds.

There stood still by the side of the sofa, a heavily built man in his late 30s in faded jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was dishevelled, and his clothes were dotted all over with irregular patches of blood.

One of the men felt her nostrils and flashed torchlight on her wide-open eyes and remarked, "Dead", to no one in particular.

" Hey, you gave a ring, is it? Who killed her, any idea?" asked the second man to the man in jeans.

"Do you have any doubt? Here is the evidence. Look," he said and took a blood-soaked kitchen knife from the sofa.

" Stop it, I say. Drop the knife and hold up your hands," shouted the policeman with the gun pointing at the man.

As the man dropped the knife, the other policeman went behind him and put the handcuffs on the hands behind him.

"Why did you kill her?"

"Go to the bedroom and find for yourself", he said with a smug smile.

The policeman saw the body of a young man in his twenties clad in pyjamas on the bed. He had obviously been strangled with a tie, and his head smashed later by some blunt weapon.

"Who is this guy? Anyone known to you"

"How would I know? I have cast my eye on him for the first time in this bed of mine"

"Is the lady in the living room your wife?"

"What else do you think, you moron, my concubine, is it?"

"Why did you kill them both?" the policeman asked, realising the stupidity of the question.

"For fun, you idiot", the man spluttered in rage. “Are you so dumb?" he asked.

A mobile phone started ringing, and by the time the policeman could locate it, the ringing stopped. The mobile was found in the pocket of the pyjamas of the dead man. He checked the calls and said to his colleague that the call to the police was not from this mobile.

Surprised at the sudden disclosure, they called the security guard, who was luckily standing outside the door. He identified that the dead duo was a couple and that the man in jeans and cuffs was a visitor seen for the first time.

There was a puzzled look on the faces of the two policemen as they surmised a psycho.

Who was he, and what was he after? Any clue? 

It was then they heard clearly an instruction from someone in an adjacent room to a few possibly assembled there.

"Cut and pack up for the day. The shooting is over”

The men in uniform peered inside to see the men folding curtains and packing several cameras and stands.

The director smiled at the man in jeans and asked, “Who asked you to talk so much to the policemen? You have gone beyond the script. You were to stand there mostly quiet?”

“Who rang the police? It was not me,” asked the man in jeans.”

“It was for bringing true effect; we had arranged a call from a booth. They and the security man were part of our group. No real police were involved,” exclaimed the director.

 There were peals of laughter and clapping for the successful shooting from all, including the young woman, the man in pyjamas, and the security guard.

 

Platinum for Valentine (854 words)

I was spending the evening at Elliot's Beach watching the waves rise and fall. I found this young lady frantically searching for something. When I went over to help, she said she couldn’t trace her car keys and started crying. I said, “Do not worry. It must be only here.​ Let me also search, but tell me where exactly you were sitting”.

When she showed the place, I dug it out easily from the sand. She was overjoyed and thanked me profusely. As we walked together to her car, she said, “I am Sunita and come here frequently. But for you, I would have been in great trouble today. Can I drop you? “I declined.

The next day, I was at the same place at the beach. She came as I expected and sat by my side. She was an extremely charming lady but walked with a slight limp. We met frequently and came very close, cuddling and hugging, till I felt life without her would be meaningless. I plied her with lots of gifts. When I proposed to her, she said she would have to wait till her elder sister got married, and our love had been kept a secret from her parents.

We became intimate soon and frequently spent some evenings at nearby resorts. It was after three months that she hesitantly asked for some big money as a short loan. I readily promised to give it to her on Valentine’s Day, a few days ahead. I also wished to surprise her with platinum earrings and a pendant

Meanwhile, I had gone to attend my cousin’s marriage one day. A lot of my good friends and relatives had gathered there. There was a cocktail party with dancing, with drinks aplenty. During the binge, we were all regaled with funny and rib-tickling incidents of how they were duped and turned into suckers. I was laughing till I heard one friend relate how he fell into a trap by a wily woman. He was recounting how he was conned to part with heavy amounts by the young woman pretending to be in deep love with him and how she moved intimately with him to make him a sucker.

Something made me ask how he met her initially.

“It was like this. I was at Elliott's Beach, sitting in a secluded spot. It was then I found her searching frantically for her car key. I helped her retrieve it. We became friends since then,” he said

“Can you describe her?” I asked  

“Why do you ask? This lady was very fetching, tall   and about 27”

Curious to know more, I asked him, “Any distinguishing features?”

“Nothing except the poor thing had to walk with a slight limp”

My dream was shattered, and anger surged in me. I would do anything for love, but not be cheated

Valentine’s Day arrived. Sunita was waiting for me at our usual spot on Elliot’s Beach, looking more radiant than ever. She wore a lovely pink dress and greeted me with a warm embrace.

“Darling, did you remember what you promised me for this day?” she whispered.

“How could I forget?” I replied, smiling. “After all, today is a very special day.”

I took out a beautifully wrapped velvet box. Her eyes sparkled. She opened it eagerly and found a pair of glittering earrings and a matching pendant.

“Oh, darling! Platinum!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around me.

“Not quite,” I said gently. “They are imitation platinum. But don't be disappointed. I have something more valuable for you.”

I handed her a colourful envelope.

Her face lit up. She must have imagined it contained the cheque she had been waiting for. With trembling fingers, she opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

It showed her standing beside my friend at the same beach with her arm lovingly entwined with his.

Her face turned pale. “Where did you get this?” she stammered.

“From an old friend. Apparently, he too was very good at finding lost car keys.”

She stood speechless.

I continued, “You know, Sunita, I have been wondering about something. You seem to be adept at losing your car keys often, but never slack in your ability to find a man and fall in love, willing to part with gifts and money

She tried to speak, but I raised my hand.

“Don't worry. I am not asking for my gifts back. I consider them the price of a valuable lesson.”

As I walked away. I warned her, “Keep off the beaches. I have asked my police friends to look for a young woman with a limp searching for car keys at the beaches”.

I turned to see her picking up the sand and angrily throwing it at me.

“Stop it. I forgot to mention. My friend in the photograph expressed a desire to marry your elder sister if she is still unmarried and a real person,” I added and walked away as she was making faces at me.

That Valentine's Day, I broke up with a sweetheart, saved a fortune, and discovered a golden truth: not all that glitters is platinum.

 

The Question That Changed a Household. (1186 words)

Bhavani Mami, as everyone called her, was in her early forties, though she looked considerably older. Frail and thin, with patches of grey in her hair, she carried the unmistakable marks of a life burdened by hardship. Her once-attractive face had acquired a melancholy, forlorn expression, as though sorrow had drained it of all emotion.

She worked as a cook in the sprawling bungalow of a wealthy family. Her day began at six in the morning and ended only at seven in the evening. Throughout those long hours, she remained confined to the kitchen, attending to the endless work.

It was no easy task. Family members appeared for breakfast and lunch at different hours, each with individual tastes and preferences. Bhagyam, the elderly mistress of the house, made no effort to regulate their habits or lessen the cook’s burden. Bhavani had to prepare several dishes every day, never knowing who would eat what or when. Naturally, she cooked generous quantities, for there were several servants to be fed as well.

Life had not always been so unkind to Bhavani. Her husband had worked in a railway workshop and, though their means were modest, he had been loving and considerate. They had lived peacefully, managing their limited income with care. Their greatest joy was their little son, whom they affectionately called Ambi.

Then tragedy struck. One evening, while her husband was cycling home from work, a speeding truck struck him from behind, killing him. With his sudden death, Bhavani’s world collapsed.

Her parents had died years earlier, and she had no siblings to turn to. Having studied only up to the ninth standard, she possessed no professional skills beyond cooking. Necessity drove her to seek work, and she eventually found a position in Bhagyam’s household.

Her employers were decent enough to permit Ambi, now ten years old, to have his meals there. But there was a condition, unspoken yet rigidly observed: the servants could eat only after every member of the family had finished.

Each morning, on his way to school, Ambi arrived at eight to eat the cold rice and buttermilk his mother had saved from the previous night. School ended at one in the afternoon, and he returned to the bungalow hungry and tired. “Amma, I am very hungry. Can I eat now?” Ambi would plead.

“Wait a little, Kanna. Let everyone finish first,” she would whisper helplessly.

Unable to bear his hunger, the boy would drink water and curl up on the rear veranda, waiting for his mother’s call.

Every such afternoon tore at Bhavani’s heart. She longed to feed him immediately, but fear of displeasing her employer held her back. She could not summon the courage to approach Bhagyam, who seldom entered the kitchen and remained unaware of the boy’s suffering.

Some days lunch was served on time. On others, the family lingered over their meal, and Ambi’s wait stretched painfully into the afternoon.

Then something happened that changed everything. Bhagyam’s only daughter, Aruna, came to stay at the bungalow with her ten-year-old son, Anil, while her husband was away on a temporary assignment in Germany.

Anil and Ambi were of the same age, and a natural friendship soon blossomed between them. They played together in the evenings, sharing games, laughter, and the easy companionship that comes so naturally to children. 

One Saturday afternoon, the entire family had assembled at the dining table for lunch. It was nearly one o’clock, but Anil was missing. His name was called several times. There was no response.

The servants searched the house and finally found him lying quietly on a bed upstairs.

“I am not hungry,” he declared when asked to come down. His mother, Aruna, grew impatient.

“Anil, stop being difficult! It is already late. Come down and have your lunch immediately.” But Anil refused to move.

Finally, Bhagyam decided to intervene. Anil was especially fond of his grandmother, and she knew how to coax him.

“Anil, my dear boy, what is the matter?” she asked affectionately. “You are usually so obedient. Why are you being stubborn today?”

“Grandma, I am not hungry.”

“How can that be? You had only two dosas and a cup of Horlicks this morning. It is almost half past one! You must be hungry by now.”

Anil looked at her thoughtfully. “Grandma, is it bad for children to go without food for so many hours?”

“Of course it is! Growing children must eat at the proper time. Otherwise, it is not good for their health.”

Anil sat up and looked straight into her eyes and asked, “Grandma, may I ask you something? If I must not remain hungry after having two dosas and Horlicks for breakfast, why must Ambi wait until half past two for his lunch? He eats only cold rice and buttermilk in the morning. He comes back from school hungry. He paused before asking quietly, “Grandma, does hunger hurt him any less because he is the cook’s son?”

Bhagyam stood speechless.

The innocent question struck her with the force of a hammer. For the first time, she saw what had been happening under her own roof. The image of a hungry child lying on the veranda while food remained plentiful in the kitchen filled her with shame.

Without another word, she went downstairs and summoned Bhavani. “Mami!” she called.

Bhavani came hurrying from the kitchen, apprehensive that something had gone wrong.

“Tell me, Mami,” Bhagyam began, her voice unusually subdued, “why have you been keeping your son hungry until so late? Why did you never tell me?”

Bhavani lowered her eyes and replied softly,” I have only been following the  instructions.”

 She realised that the fault lay not with the helpless mother but with her own thoughtless rule.

“I should have known better,” she admitted. “From tomorrow, Ambi must have his lunch as soon as he returns from school. It does not matter who has eaten and who has not. And the same applies to everyone working here. No one should have to remain hungry merely because we have not finished our meals.”

Bhavani looked up in disbelief. Her eyes filled with tears. For once, words failed her.

Aruna, who had been listening, turned towards her son.

“Sabash, Anil! I am proud of you. You have taught us something important today.”

Then, addressing Bhavani, she added warmly, “Mami, I have been meaning to tell you something. On weekends and on evenings when I return early, I shall help you in the kitchen. You work so hard for all of us. It is time we shared some of your burden.”

The others nodded in agreement, and a spontaneous round of applause followed.

Bhagyam remained silent, her face unreadable. But her silence was no longer the silence of indifference. It was the silence of someone who had been compelled to look within.

“Come, Ambi!” Anil   called cheerfully. “It is lunchtime. We can eat together!”

For Ambi, it was the end of a long, hungry wait. For Bhavani, it was a moment of unexpected relief. And for the household, it was a lesson that no adult had thought to teach. 

Quo Vadis (1199 words)

Captain Satish lay awake beside his sleeping wife, Sushma. In the faint moonlight, her face looked lovelier than ever. She was expecting their second child, and the thought of leaving her now was unbearable.

For over two years, their life at Chandigarh cantonment had been idyllic. But a week earlier, orders had arrived transferring him to a troubled border sector where skirmishes were frequent. He had only two days left before departure and still hadn’t found the courage to tell her.

He eventually drifted off, awakening to the irresistible aroma of aloo parathas sizzling in ghee. He entered the kitchen, put his arms around Sushma, and covered her eyes. Fresh from her bath, fragrant with sandalwood soap, she turned and embraced him. They remained locked together until the smell of a burning paratha broke the spell.

“I’m sure it’ll be a boy this time,” she said, smiling. “Tall and handsome like his father.”

“What’s wrong with another girl as lovely as our Anisha?”

“Let me have my boy first. Then you can have as many daughters as you please!”

Their laughter was interrupted by the entry of Captain Sharma, Satish’s closest friend and colleague, through the door.

“Satish! All packed for the front? Poor Bhabhi will miss you terribly, especially now!”

Sushma turned sharply towards her husband.

Satish glared at his friend, then drew her close. “I wanted to tell you, darling. My orders came last week. I leave in two days.”

Her smile vanished. Born into a family of soldiers, she understood duty. But this did little to soften the blow.

“Will you come back when the baby arrives?” she whispered.

“I’ll do everything I can. Now, please smile for me.”

Two days later, Satish departed, leaving Sushma and little Anisha with her parents in his house.

Months passed. Sushma gave birth to a healthy boy with his father’s brown eyes. Three months later, a letter arrived from Satish.

So you’ve got your wish! Now it’s my turn to ask for another daughter. Keep praying for my return, darling. I cannot say when I’ll get leave.

She read those words repeatedly, clinging to every syllable.

News of fierce fighting along the border grew increasingly alarming. Then his letters stopped altogether.

Captain Sharma, still stationed at Chandigarh, visited regularly, bringing sweets, fruits and toys for the children. Anisha adored him, and his cheerful presence offered Sushma some relief from her anxiety.

Then, one Monday afternoon, her father entered carrying a telegram.

Captain Satish was missing in action. Despite extensive searches, neither his body nor any evidence of his capture had been found.

Days later, his personal belongings arrived with a letter praising his courage and service to the nation. There was a cheque for outstanding payments but no confirmation of death.

The uncertainty was crueller than any verdict.

Sushma wept inconsolably. Her mother had to remind her to feed the baby. Anisha, frightened by the household’s grief, cried alongside her.

Sharma became a pillar of support. He handled bank formalities, helped with the children and gently encouraged Sushma to resume ordinary life.

“Men have returned after years in captivity,” he reminded her. “Don’t abandon hope and prayer.”

But hope, sustained by silence, gradually becomes its own torment. Two years passed.

Sushma took a teaching position at a local school. Her son, now a lively toddler, bore an uncanny resemblance to Satish: the same curly hair, sharp nose and dimple on his right cheek. Every smile brought back memories she struggled to suppress. Anisha was happily settled in primary school.

Sharma’s visits had become part of the family’s routine. A bachelor of Satish’s age, he had quietly assumed responsibilities that went far beyond friendship. Sushma’s ageing parents welcomed his presence.

One weekend, her parents travelled to a wedding in a neighbouring town, taking Anisha with them. Sushma stayed home with her son.

Unaware of their absence, Sharma arrived that evening.

“Why cook tonight?” he suggested. “Let’s order dinner and watch a film.”

She agreed, grateful for the company.

After dinner, the boy fell asleep. Sushma tucked him into bed and returned to the sitting room. As the film played, Sharma gently drew her closer. She rested her head against his shoulder.

For a long while, neither spoke.

Finally, Sharma turned towards her.

“Sushma, how much longer must we pretend? We love each other. We’ve waited more than three years. We cannot spend our lives waiting for someone who may never return.”

She looked away, her eyes filling.

“I loved Satish,” she whispered.

“I know. So did I, as a friend. Nothing can change that. But you’re alive, Sushma. You deserve happiness. And the children deserve a father.”

He paused.

“I’ll take voluntary retirement. With my engineering degree and MBA, I can find a civilian job. We can build a life together. Your parents will understand.”

She studied his face, searching for an answer to the conflict within her.

Then he kissed her forehead gently at first, which grew into passionate kisses on her cheeks

Sharma switched off the television and took her hand.

A few weeks later, they married quietly in a civil ceremony, followed by puja at a temple. Her parents gave their blessings.

For the first time in years, Sushma allowed herself to believe that happiness could return.

Another year passed. Diwali arrived, bathing the town in colour and light. Houses glittered with lamps and serial lights, fireworks crackled overhead, and children raced excitedly through the streets.

Sushma was radiant. Her parents sat contentedly in the courtyard while Anisha played nearby. Her little boy, fascinated by the sparklers, clung to her sari.

Sharma stood beside her, his arm resting affectionately around her shoulders.

She was expecting another child.

It was around eight p.m. when the boy suddenly screamed.

A strange figure had emerged from the darkness beyond the gate.

Wrapped in a tattered black blanket, the man advanced painfully on crutches. One trouser leg hung empty. His hair was long and matted, his beard unkempt, and a black patch covered one eye.

“Who’s there?” Sushma’s father called sharply. “What do you want?”

The stranger continued forward towards the gate, one hand outstretched.

Frightened, Sushma instinctively moved closer to Sharma, who wrapped his arms protectively around her.

The stranger stopped.

For a moment, his gaze rested on the couple. Then it travelled to the unmistakable baby bump beneath Sushma’s sari.

He stood motionless. Behind him, fireworks burst across the sky. Their brilliant colours briefly illuminated his ravaged face.

No one recognised him. Slowly, he lowered his outstretched hand.

Then, without a word, he turned and began making his way back towards the railway station.

There was nothing hesitant about his retreat. Despite the crutches and the missing leg, his movements carried a strange determination, almost a sense of purpose.

He had survived captivity, wounds and years of suffering for one dream: coming home. Now he knew that home no longer awaited him.

A faint, sad smile touched Captain Satish’s lips.

Perhaps this time, she would have a daughter, he thought. But does it matter now?

He disappeared into the darkness as the fireworks continued to light the sky.

Quo Vadis, where is he going? He knew not.

 

The Oracle at the Temple (1059 words)

The temple was not crowded early in the morning. I stood alone in the inner sanctum, looking at the deity, resplendent and bathed in sandalwood paste. Suddenly, a shrill  voice from inside asked, “Have you ever greased someone’s palm for my darshan?”

I shuddered in disbelief and mumbled, “Not today, but I fear I have done once, on a festival day.”

“When you meet me next Sunday, you will neither have to bribe anyone nor wait for darshan. It will be instantaneous,” said the voice.

“What does He mean by ‘instantaneous meeting ’? Could it mean the end of my life?” I wondered.

Drenched in sweat and consumed by fear, I began thinking of all the unfinished business in my life: an unwritten will, enormous loans given to trusted friends but remaining unrecovered, many unregularised benami land and property transactions, and, above all, the prospect of my grieving wife and growing children.

I could hardly walk back home. The moment my wife opened the door, she shrieked, “Are you all right? Why are you drenched in sweat and looking so frightened? Are you feeling unwell? Tell me the truth!”

“Leave it. If I tell you, you will be even more frightened. You may not believe me either,” I replied.

She was adamant, so I finally told her about the divine voice in the sanctum and my fear that some tragedy awaited me on Sunday. She burst out laughing.

“It is my fault. I should have told you earlier. You mentioned that you were expecting your promotion orders. I also prayed that our children should, as usual, do well in the final examinations beginning next week. So I requested the temple priest to perform a puja and offer Pongal and Kesari. He agreed to do it this Sunday at seven in the morning, when the temple would be nearly empty. Perhaps the priest spoke to you from the dimly lit sanctum. I certainly don’t believe that God spoke to you!”

“No, the priest was not there. I was alone there. My God, what have you done? God was already displeased that I had greased the watchman’s palm to jump the queue, and now you have dared to bribe God Himself for petty favours. I am afraid you have put me in great trouble,” I said, overwhelmed by my fears.

“Be sensible. Anyway, we are going to the temple to fulfil my vow,” she assured me.

When we reached the temple on Sunday morning, the priest was not seen in the sanctum. Apart from two people sitting at a distance in a mandapam, there was no one around.

“Let me check his house. It is right behind the sanctum,” I said.

It was a small tenement covered by asbestos sheets, consisting of a hall, a bedroom and a tiny kitchen. A boy of about twelve was standing on a stool beside the wall adjoining the sanctum. I saw a large hole behind  him in the wall.

“Where is the priest?” I asked.

“Appa! Someone has come to see you,” he called out in his squeaky voice.

The priest emerged from the kitchen.

“Everything is ready. The Pongal and Kesari are done. Please go to the sanctum. I will follow you with the prasadam,” he said. Then he instructed his son, “Mukunda, take them carefully to the shrine.”

I was pleased to see that the boy handled the large plate carefully, which I had brought. It contained plenty of fruits, betel leaves, turmeric, camphor and incense sticks.

As Mukundan rang the bell with gusto, the priest performed the puja properly and without hurry. After the arati, I placed a ₹500 note on the plate. The priest’s face broke into a grateful smile.

As we were about to leave with the prasadam, I said, “Can we speak privately for a few minutes?”

He looked at me apprehensively, and the colour drained from his face.

“What is this nonsense about a divine voice in the sanctum frightening devotees?” I asked sternly. “I am a devout man, though I am also a police officer. But I do not believe in an oracle speaking in a child's squeaky voice. I saw the stool in your hall, right beside the wall adjoining the sanctum, and I also saw the hole. I want that hole to be  sealed properly with bricks and cement. Do you understand?”

The next moment, the priest fell at my feet.

“Forgive me, sir. I am in the throes of extreme poverty. My salary is very low, and the trustee firmly refused any increase but expects that the offerings by devotees on the arati plate are adequate to supplement my income. There is hardly any crowd or special pujas except on festival days. I cannot even afford my children's school fees. We sometimes go without food, except on days of special puja like today. I promise I will never do such a thing again.”

“I forgive you this time because I trust your sincere regret and promise. But remember, I may be a strict policeman if you repeat it. 

I will talk to the trustee and suggest appealing to the public for donations to increase the corpus and also increase your salary.

On my part, I will bear the expenses of your children’s education, including the books and uniform, if any. But you must teach them good values,” I told him before pressing a thousand rupees into his hand.

My wife looked at me with pride and satisfaction.

As I turned to leave, Mukundan suddenly fell at my feet. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Uncle, my father always warned me not to indulge in such pranks, but I did not listen. I only wanted to reduce his financial burden by encouraging devotees to perform more pujas with unfailing dakshina and liberal prasadam. It was my mistake that he was not aware of  it many times. I swear I will lead an honest life from now on. Please do not punish my father,” he pleaded.

I gently patted his head.

“Good boy. Study well,” I said.

As we walked away from the temple, I could not help smiling.

The ‘divine’ voice had indeed kept its promise.

My darshan that Sunday had been instantaneous, but the oracle had not been God. It had been a hungry child, speaking through a hole in the temple wall.